A brief look into the mind of a serial Killer
by Big Country
Summary: This is a story of the life that leads to the creation of the serial killer. All events herein are fantasy and there is no real killer like this. That I know of. Lol. Enjoy!
1. Introduction

To all that have chosen to read this; be warned, it isn't a kids story. It is one of grief and sorrow and a man's demise before he reaches his teen years. As of now, there are two chapters written, and if I get any kind of feedback, I will continue to write. Advice is welcome.

Thanks for reading,

Big Country

Introduction

It would be nice to claim that this could be short, but as all lives go, none is short. Everyone has stories and tales, years of experience and troubles to share. Truth be told though, most of them are not important in the long run. Very few are beneficial to the society. Though, as a killer myself, I know that no matter what I share here, nothing I could ever do would benefit the society as much as the shock and fear that I instilled upon the American society.

All good stories have a beginning and an end, but alas, my end will never be shared, for it has yet to come. I can tell you though, through my life's experiences, how I came to be what I am. For some, this book will be an atrocity, for others, it is the next greatest inspirational novel. It might have cult followings, but I will never know. All I will know is the years I have spent writing this novel on death's row.

Many of you watch shows like Dexter on Showtime or watch shows on television about us, and yes, I mean us. We are a group of our own, so similar to each other, but all having our major differences. These cases on TV are only the easiest cases. People like me are smart, and elude the police without issue. One slip-up can mean the difference between spending our life in freedom, or spending it in a cell. To me, what truly matters is that there is a time behind bars when your urges eat away at your sanity. I have passed that point, but barely made it out of it. I was only brought back by my savior.

My savior is not religion, or anyone person, but rather my memories, something that can never be taken away, something that will always be mine, and short of death and brain damage, will never change. It is my memories that kept me sane… those same memories that were threatening to tear me apart. I learned to focus on those memories, and relive the moment as opposed to thinking about them and wishing to be able to d oit again.

I suppose that, were I given the chance again, I might not have done what I had done, that I would have controlled myself, but I, as much as my fellow killers, know that is impossible. It is an urge, like the urge men feel when they are with their girlfriend for the first time, getting ready to share a memory for life. That urge does not go away with me, it just exists, and slowly eats at me, making me nervous and jumpy until it is satisfied. Would that it would stay satisfied.

It never does stay satisfied. It may stay dormant for a little while, but something like that never does stay hidden. It slowly rises again, the urge stronger than before. I guess it might be similar to what drug addicts face, but I can not confirm that either… I was too busy dealing with my addiction to worry about the lives of others… or rather the lives of others were exactly my problem.

To give a brief idea of what the feds believe is important. There are thre events that most serial killers are reported to have. The first is bed-wetting until an older age. This is something both of my siblings suffered from, but I felt I was normal… at least for a while. The second is Cruelty to animals. Again, something both of my siblings had, but I didn't. I remember one incident where my brother, Jake, was ripping legs off of grasshoppers and sticking them in the hot tar that had melted out on the streets. I cried my eyes out the first time I saw this, for at such a young age, such an act seemed like the ultimate in evil. Things never changed with that though… it is still a despicable act to me, even after all that I have done. The last is fire starting, something I also missed out on, but then again, you could probably guess my next few words.

These are signs that both of my siblings set off, and gave my parents warning. Both of my parents are very interested in the subject, and knew the signs well enough. I continued on my merry way, everyone thinking me normal, and me not being aware of what was manifesting inside of me. Both of my siblings went to a psychiatrist to get help. I never got that help. I guess I should have, but if if's and butt's were candy and nuts, we'd all have a merry Christmas.

As all good stories do, I will walk you through the early development that led to me being who I am, and then continuing on to points that I find important or relevant.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The Lost Soul

One of my earliest memories that I can remember is one of my dad and I. It was commonly known that I was going to be my dads kid, hands down. I took after him in looks and always took every chance I had to keep close to him. All I can really remember though is that he was really sick, and that there was a sun on our front door. I called it the "Sun House" so that I could remember it for all time. Looking banow, I am not sure what relevance it has, except that maybe it was then that my mind realized the way to save me. Of course, it was for a short time that I was with him there; my parents had split up, and my mother had let me go on vacation with him for a week. I remember being distraught when he told me I had to go back to New Mexico to live with my mother. The court case, if memory serves right, had not yet happened, and she only had temporary custody.

The trail was rough on me. I was told by my mother that I was to say I had been raped by my dad. Something I had no idea about at the time. I wish the judge had questioned my knowledge of the act before going on my word… the word of a five year old. Sitting in front of the court was an event that seems to be etched, something I wish had never happened. I was excited at the time, since I was the center of attention. The judge and lawyers were paying attention to me, my mother was smiling, but I was a little confused. My dad was not smiling. I knew something was wrong, but really, I didn't know what at the time.

When I was old enough, my dad managed to bring it back up, which was enough to tear me apart inside out when the memory came flooding back. I could only cry about it, not able to do anything about the past. I always wished I had been able to. The past cannot be changed though, and the facts remain the same; I was manipulated like so many others in that grand scheme she had going. It managed to work too.

She won the court case, gaining custody over my siblings and I. It was probably the happiest day of her life. I remember going out to see a movie that day, but I cannot remember which one. I remember it was animated, and I didn't like it much. Well, as a better result of the court case, for her, my dad was put in jail. Albeit, it was only for a month, but for some, that is enough time for a man to come apart, and am sure he did.

I would like to say that life went on as normal, but that would be a lie. Not three days after that, my sister came to visit. I believe she was fourteen at the time, and she was there for eater. My mother had invited her down for the holidays, and even paid for the plane ticket to fly her out. The first day she was there, my sister helped us go look for a family dog. We ended up getting a German Shepherd. The dog was named snowy, which we thought was funny for a dog in New Mexico.

After returning home form getting a dog, Justin, my mother's boyfriend at the time, built a make-shift dog house and put it in our back yard. The dog was chained to a stake and left outside during the night. Something I highly object to, as pets are supposed to be part of the family.

It was nice having my sister over for dinner, as she was always funny. She was older by many years, but she was able to treat me like family, even if she was only half blood with us, a fact my dad will never let me forget. Something that trip though, changed her life forever, as well as mine.

When we awoke the morning two days after her arrival, we were all shocked to see that our dog was gone. As a "family" we set out. I use that term lightly, as the truth of the situation in now something I understand, when as a kid, I was ignorant. As a "family," we all got into the vehicle to go look for Snowy. We spent hours searching before the adults decided he would come back when ready.

We received a call later that nigh; a local famrer told us he thought he might have found our dog, and sure enough, he did. This dog wasn't how we expected though. Instead of the collar with his nametag on, he had a rope. Instead of sleeping deeply in his dog house, he was in a deep sleep three inches off the ground looking up at a tree. This, a sight I will truly never forget, as no one ever can when we lose something we value. At that point in my life, life was something I valued. As I grew older, I learned the truth. With my mother having bipolar, she and her boyfriend had done the deed, as well as similar deeds to our other two dogs. One shot, the other run over. Thankfully, I never got to see the other two at the scenes.

As the time my sister would be there came to a close, Justin wanted something more out of her. I had been forced to take pills for a while, as my mother was a hypochondriac, and I had eventually gotten sick of it. I just started pretending to take them and then throwing them away when no one was looking. The night before her departures, Justin gave me my pill as usual, and one to my brother as well. I went on about my routine, and my brother, happy to do something out of the norm, took the pill. Within a half an hour, my brother was complaining of being tired, and it was rather late for us to bee up. I went to bed, but woke up with nightmares. When I called for help, what I heard were sobs coming from their bedroom. I shook my brother, hoping to wake him. I was not successful at it, but I was able to sneak to their room to see what was wrong. Through the crack in the door, I could see the ultimate crime being committed. No matter what I did in life, no crime is worse than that of rape. Rape tears the mind apart as well as the physical well-being. My sister saw me, and tried to reach out for help, but there was nothing I could do. Unfortunately, Justin saw her and got up to go to the door. I ran as fast as I could to my room. I got in and laid in bed, pretending to be asleep.

As the door creaked open, I could hear his labored breaths. He was trying to be quiet, but I know what he was hearing. In an attempt to slow his breath and be unnoticeable, he created a pounding in his ears, making it impossible to focus for a moment or two. I guess he decided who was the guilty one and left. The sobs though, never stopped, and I hear them now as I write. The sobs that seemed to want to push her heart out of her chest and run as far away as possible. Yet there was nothing she could do, nor nothing I could do.

The next morning, I didn't see her. I knew I didn't want to, that she might blame her sadness on me, but she never did, even when she hugged her little bro' on the way to the plane. At that age, I knew something was wrong, but I had no clue what. I wish I had; I might have been able to save her. She was unable to put up with the shame. Her future was as dark as mine, though seemingly less pleasing to the one living it.

To say that that's the end of my sorrow would be a joke; it never is. The day after she left, Justin proceeded to find a new sport, and broke my arm in the process. To him, coming into my room while I was asleep to hit me was a game, but I found a way to get around it; I just laid down in front of the door.

This idea failed for me; I was only able to keep him out, but not from inflicting pain. When he figured out the problem, he shoved the door as hard as he could, catching my wrist under the door and snapping it up. I have rarely felt so much pain in my life.

Pain seemed to be his new game; a more twisted person I never knew. He's the reason I fear needles, as I always anticipated shots when I was younger. (I had quite the fascination with them.) He used to take needles and ream them into my brother and I's arm out of the blue, for no reason. At one point he had heated something up and put it on the tip. What I remember most about that time was seeing cloaked black figures crawling all over the walls.

I threatened to tell my dad, but he was smart enough to warn me... gave me the consequences if I told. Considering the options, I decided to be a coward, yet again. Maybe if I had been tougher, I wouldn't be writing right now, but I wasn't, and now everyone around me suffers.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Unfortunately for my victims, life went on as normal as could be expected, or at least as normal was to me back then. I Joined kindergarten classes, and was bored out of my mind. I was old enough to understand the teacher's position of power, but young enough to get away with ignoring it. I couldn't take learning addition; I already knew multiplication. When people ask where I get my arrogance from; I base it on my attitude towards learning; I was always held back, never able to reach my potential.

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I had not seen the horrors I have, but then again, that's just a plea of a man facing his undoing. I know that if I hadn't seen my past, if I had somehow forgotten it, I never would be in the trouble I am, and I would not be writing this. I would be enjoying life (if that's possible) with a wife and kids, maybe even have friends. That's just wishful thinking; something that I wish I had had from a young age.

Considering how life was at home, I used to think it couldn't get worse, but it did. I spent the summer after that still with them, much to my own horror and dismay. At such a young age, I was already faltering; that layer of innocence that protects us when we are young was slowly disintegrating. What had once been a kid so focused on learning and having fun with friends was becoming a shell, afraid of his own shadow and most importantly, hateful of his step-father.

I can remember falling asleep on the couch one evening to find that I couldn't move when I woke up; I was tied down. As I struggled for release, the rope slashed into my wrist. Looking down, through my peripheral vision, I could see the blood coming out of my wrist. I passed out; there was enough innocence left at that age that I couldn't stand blood. When I awoke again, both of them were feeding my brother. It took me a little while to see clearly, but it looked like spaghetti. I wish it was.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the light and my eyes got clearer, I noticed that the food was actually worms. In a twisted way, it was what I had always thought would be funny, but at the time, it was anything but. And he was forced to eat them, one at a time. The red I saw was blood... that was enough to make me woozy, but I maintained consciousness. I wish I hadn't. What I saw next was my ultimate undoing.

While were eaten one by one, crunching sound the only audible sound, I heard my mother gasp. I looked up to see what it was and she was stripping... a sight no kid wants to see. What I saw then was the scariest thing in my life; her chest fell to the floor revealing cavities she had stuffed. There were major cuts along her side and stomach. And he was staring at them with longing, as if it was the most amazing thing in the world. He stopped feeding to caress her hair. He whispered in her ear and she giggled... as if nothing was going on. Then he took a knife and lightly placed it upon her stomach, making a small incision. I did not see her eyes fill with tears, but rather with what I now know as lust.

As his cuts continued, she just grew more impatient, trying to get it over with. She grabbed the knife, slicing her hand in the process and threw it. He latched onto her and proceeded to suck the blood out of the incision. Then they made love, and it was the foulest event of my life. It's probably the reason I still detest the act, still consider it the most repulsive event between a man and a woman.

Once the act was finished, they heard me sobbing. I never had any control over it, so there was nothing I could do to hide it. I just cried and cried, and became hysterical when they moved me. I found that the rope wasn't the only thing holding me down. I had a hook connecting my legs together. It wasn't painful, but definitely made me sick to my stomach.

I thought that day that I would die, but there must have been an angel watching over me. Evidently Justin had left paperwork undone at the office and another officer dropped by to drop it off. When he saw what had happened, he ran outside and came in later with several cops. Both of them were arrested, but she got off on all charges; she convinced them that he made her do it. And the cuts were convincing enough evidence, no matter what testimonies we gave.

Life, unfortunately, continued on with her controlling my fate. A fate which I would soon come to realize as one worse than death. A fate that would claim many lives, ruin futures and ultimately end in my own demise.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Some would say that no chapter should complete a three day journey, but this one does, as I think it appropriate. The first, and most important part to mention is that immediately after being cleared, she took off with us… to Delaware. We left in the middle of the night, and took nothing with us; I think she wanted to make sure he wasn't going to get a hand on us for "stolen goods" charges, or similar crime. I wish she had; at least then I would have gotten to my dad.

The trip was like every other trip in the sense that it was hours in a car, driving through the same scenery. What differed was that I was still in shock, but overcoming the shock, probably a warning sign about me even then. I do admit, though, to swearing insanity at that point in my life; I saw the same mountain range, the same field of corn, the same million cars. I was making games out of counting how many peaks we passed. While that isn't an unusual game, the memories that played through my mind was something no kid should have ever had to think about. Each time I saw a snow covered peak, I saw red tips instead of white. Every time I saw a cross on the side of the highway, I saw that knife. Every time I passed a church, I thought of my sister's rape. These images all flashed through my mind, never making it apparent that they were known to me.

The first day of the ride came and went, and we stopped at a hotel overnight, spending what little money we had left in order to keep warm overnight. At the hotel, she took in another man and did that foul deed, the most evil of human needs. In his sleep, she carried us off and took his wallet. Thankfully, he slept through the leaving, because I know she would not have hesitated to dispose of him. On the way to the car, there was a dig whimpering for the cold. She took it into the car and told us that we would have a new pet. I was temporarily overjoyed, but no good thing lasts. Within the first hour, that dark side of her took over… and stripped us of the pet.

This time, I was forced to watch, with no chance to go anywhere else. She took out the car lighter and slowly burned the tail off the dog. Eventually, the dog passed out, and in the eerie silence, I realized that the dog had been howling. She must have tired soon after that, because she threw it out of the window at the next bridge, leaving the window smeared with blood, blood which she would later claim belonged to a deer someone had hit that she stopped to help.

Yet I remember it, and she went on as if nothing had ever happened. Somehow I didn't deem this as fair to me, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. I suppose this is the moment where I first lost my faith; I couldn't help but think that no god that actually cared would ever have a puppy go like that. That was what officially broke me; I knew at that point that the only thing I could ever rely on would be myself, and have since then.

Also a loss at that point were my emotions; I could no longer love, no longer sympathize and at times tell right from wrong. I adjusted to life like that though, as everyone else adjusts to having another birthday. Looking back I can see that it happened, but like a birthday, at the time, it just happens.

Onward with the trip, she lost our money at the slot machines. We were forced to spend the night in a homeless shelter, and I woke tied down. My mind froze up and I started screaming. It did no good; my mouth was covered by another man's hand. The hand had a stench that reeked of fish and beer. Repulsed by the smell, I threw up, which seemed to make him switch his position. When he did, I saw for the first time in my life, the receiving end of what my sister had gone through. The man had removed all of his clothing, and it was protruding from his body, pointed at my face.

Either through anger or fear, or the man's own stupidity, I freed myself from the bonds that held my back. What happened next would be the last step in my short transformation. I remember exactly what happened, even now. He stepped back when he saw I had freed myself. I ripped my arm out and ripped it off, relishing in his screams. He lashed out at me, but caught my shoe, ripping his fingernail off. Not willing to let it end, or rather, not wanting it to end, I grabbed a knife from my backpack; something my dad gave me to help me keep my concentration while whittling. I jabbed it into his throat and pulled sideways.

Luckily, the police never got to the scene in time. They were never able to match fingerprints or DNA… no kid would ever be in the system, so the case has gone unsolved. I guess that's just proof of our criminal service at work. What's important here is the fingernail… it became my trophy. The first thing I would do to my victims after killing them would be to take the cleanest nail from them that I could find. I eventually labeled them with location so as not to confuse them. Every time I reach for one, I can remember the murder as if it was happening; as if at that exact moment the victim was looking up at this man in power, realizing that there is nothing that they can do to escape me.

Leaving the scene of the crime would be a relief for me; silence in the car after a long shower. I'm sure she suspected what had happened, but she would just have told me how proud she was., and I had no urge to hear it. It was not something I was proud to admit to doing, but it was exhilarating to think about. I knew at that point I would need to be careful, because the first murder was luck; I should not have escaped so easily, and I had plenty of time to think about it in the car.

The last night of the trip was spent in the car, the night colder than any that I had ever experienced. Somehow though, just thinking back on the memory of what I had done managed to let me sleep without a blanket; part because I was happy, or at least that was the emotion I identified it as at the time, and part because I felt that I deserved to be punished. At that time there was a small nagginig voice that still thought I had a chance to save myself. I never listened.

As that voice was slowly killed, I realized a more urgent and powerful voice was growing in intensity, and that it had also always been there, not as my friend, as it seemed to be now, but rather as an enemy I had been pushing away for so long. As I would grow, this voice would become my only friend, my only emotion. A friend, I realized, that would be hidden from society; a friend all to myself. A friend that would only care for me, shelter me and help me through any crisis I may ever face.

As I lay there, feeling her, her because she would be my only love, I thought of a next time, thinking of methods. I imagined a needle; death by a thousand pricks, but knew it would take too long. I opted out for a simple knife across the throat for this fantasy. I imagined the blade slowly cutting into the skin, drawing the blood out, watching it dribble out and down his throat. Seeing the fear in his eyes, moving my head down to his chest to listen t =o his heartbeat, moving his tattered shirt out if the way to get to him. Listening, finally, to hear his heartbeat quicken up as the moment draws near, then almost a total shut down as everything fails. His bladder releases and blood isn't the only thing to hit the floor. Then the heart beat slows to a stop and the smell hits me.

Then I wake up, realizing that my friend had been showing me my deepest desires in my sleep. I also realized who was in the dream; that homeless man again. My mother looked back and smiled. She asked my if I had good dreams, speaking to me for the first time since the start of this journey. "they were wonderful" I said.

"You know, you talk in your sleep, so I know what you're dreaming." This caught me off guard; I wasn't prepared enough to figure myself out completely and here it was; she knew. She continued, sensing my hesitation, "I had no idea you enjoyed killing him; I thought it was just spur of the moment." A smile slowly creeping across her face as if she wanted to tell me she knew the whole thing, but not guaranteeing she did.

"I guess I did." I replied, regaining some of my confidence "But then again, who wouldn't when faced with such atrocities?" She looked at me as if she understood and then put her eyes back on the road. For a second, I would almost swear that she loved me, but that was all it lasted for.

Not willing to let the conversation die, for the rush it was giving me, I asked, "What exactly did I say?" She glanced back over looking me up and down. I could see she was on the verge of saying something, almost on the tip of her tongue. Then she lets her smile die and shakes her head, as if she were disappointed in something. She looked back up and said, "What you dreamed is worse than anything you could ever be told about by someone else. Maybe when it's my time, I will tell you what you said, but not until. I guess it won't really matter then, but you may still want to know."

I sighed, thinking of how long that would take; it could be years before she kicks the bucket. I gave thought to taking care of that earlier, but that other voice gave what I could only consider a retching noise, only audible to myself. Obviously the idea of killing her was not pleasing to it. I knew I would have to figure out its likes and dislikes before too long, but at a later time.

I looked back at her, realizing I had been staring out the window. Something seemed odd about her at the moment, but I just assumed it was her finding that her son liked to kill. Not that she really would have cared; not unless it somehow stopped the child support checks from coming in once a month.

Looking at the clock I read 14:26 and wondered why it was that my brother had remained silent. I looked back and realized he was dead asleep. Ireached back to try and shake him awake, but I was stopped by her. He grabbed my arm tightly and told me that if I woke him, I would find the true meaning of pain. I guess it was then that I realized she had already picked her favorite, but I had to live with it. I had said before that I was well beyond my years in intelligence; it followed into the rest of my life. Of course, I don't think I could have been emotionally able at that point to feel jealousy or betrayal. I must admit to complete lack of emotional capabilities by that point; I had to or I never would have survived the pain of killing someone, or at least that's what I assume.

We stopped shortly after our talk; a small bite to eat at McDonald's. I ordered a 20 piece McNugget. I suppose that's what led to my profession. I dunked that nugget into the barbeque sauce and realized it had to be the best barbeque sauce I had ever had. Funny enough, my profession would be creating barbeque sauce, with a few secret ingredients. You would be surprised what adding a little red does to the flavor. I never could listen to my mother when she said not to play with my food…

Towards the end of my nuggets, we were interrupted by a homeless man walking table to table asking for change. When he reached ours, I saw the same need in his eyes that I had seen in the man I killed; it was a need for anything he could get, and it enraged me. I had an urge to get him out of my sight, out of everyone's sight, but all I did was glare. He caught my glare and I saw fear in his eyes; much as a lamb would show fear to a wolf, even if the shepherd has a shotgun.

I pried my head away from those eyes, having to give up the sense of power that it gave me. Looking at the wall I heard a small jangle of coins and knew that my mother had "helped" him. I knew it wouldn't be helping him though; it would be beer cash by the end of the day, and tomorrow he would be going through the same process. At a Burger King maybe? Might choose a Hardee's… either way he was still the same person doing the same thing day after day, the scum of society living off of those that had spare change.

It wasn't long before, thankfully, we left the McDonald's. I glanced back one last time to see him looking out at me. I guess all lambs can sense the wolf on the prowl, and this one was to be no exception.

After hours on the road, we finally arrived at our new home. It was a small trailer with two bedrooms and one dingy bathroom. The front door opened into a small area. On the right was the living room, where a small television with an antenna stood, antennas bent beyond any salvation. To the left was the kitchen; the two rooms separated by the countertop. The kitchen was small; the sink was stainless steel, or at least was supposed to be. There was something growing in the sink, and it repulsed me. Opposite the dividing countertop stood the stove.. The stove had one oven, but there would be no way to cook a turkey in it. The stovetop had two burners, which would make cooking any real meal difficult. When you turned away from the sink and took a left, there was a hallway, maybe three feet wide; not really big enough, especially for someone that would become claustrophobic.

A few feet down the hall was one of the bedrooms; it would belong to my brother and I. The ceiling there stooped down, getting down to a little over six feet. There were already two beds, conveniently enough. Both of them had to be burned when we ended up with lice. It wasn't fun having to be bald, but I would grow my hair back in time. It was a long month without toys; I had to try to act normal in other ways if possible.

After our bedroom, on the right, was the bathroom. The sing was cracked and leaked every time you washed your hands. The tub was small; small enough that even at my young age I had to prop my feet up, and also covered in scum. I think the brown tub was originally white. The curtains were green cloth, but had splotches of brown all over them, and the bathroom smelled of death.

At the end of the hall was her bedroom. Her room was larger than ours, and had no bed. The windows were uncovered, and the windows had buildup around the edges and in the corners. There was an outlet hanging out of the wall, the area around it charred. The closet was dark, as the light had long since blown out. The floor was covered with, as we soon learned, old food. There were bugs swarming over it, as if it had been a feast freshly laid. This would turn out to be my biggest phobia. Funny that the only emotions I should feel are anger and fear… and understand none of the beneficial ones. I would grow to call it, "Many-bug-ophobia." I guess I never wanted to look it up. Multienterophobia would be as close as I could come, but even that's not accurate.

Cleaning would be my first objective in the upcoming days, as would be perfecting my skills. I felt powerful for once in my life, and the lion would soon be out on the prowl again…


	5. Chapter 4

Dear readers,

Obviously, if you've made it this far, you're as messed up as the writer. Haha. No, really, this is just a warning for this chapter. This is going to be the longest chapter and I wanted to give you all a heads up. Also, I want to thank you for making it this far; many people quit reading after the first chapter, so I am happy to have people that keep coming back for more; it means a lot to me. Without further ado;

Chapter 4

If you have never moved before; it's a miserable experience. Everything is cleaning and anger. The cleaning takes many hours a day, and causes people to become angry because it gets to be tedious and repetitive. Everything has to find a home; everything has to be straightened up to perfection.

This is not how it went with us that time. She went through while we were out one day playing in the yard. Her idea was a quick wipe down with a rag. The sink still had scum, and the faucet wasn't working correctly. I found out how quickly I could not stand this, and gave it a shot on my own. I spent the most of the next week cleaning up every corner and making sure that everything worked. The bathroom was the worst room.

To get the tub cleaned, I had to fill it with two parts bleach for every one part water, which led to a smell that no one could stand, the bleach being the best smell. Getting down and scrubbing made me gag; there were things floating in the water; obviously up out of the drain. I would learn quickly that the drain didn't work properly, and at that age, there was nothing I could do about it. She had to call in a plumber. As it turns out; the pipes were not only clogged, but also broken, so if it had drained, the water would have gone underneath the house and left the smell permanent.

We allowed the plumber to do his job, but I worked diligently right beside him. I knew the faucet wasn't working, so I asked him to take a pause. He showed me the parts of the faucet and explained their purpose. He took out a screw driver and popped off the water saver. The amount of sludge that poured out was enough to make even the plumber gag. Inside were pieces of metal, bugs and fecal matter. I donned gloves and placed it all into a bag, letting it sit. After cleaning out the sink I tackled the toilet. I have never in my life cleaned a toilet that bad.

When the cleaning was over, I was able to rest, or so I believed. Some victories are short lived. I learned that keeping the house clean would be as big a task as it was to get the area cleaned in the first place. I would spend all of my spare time cleaning the house, making sure everything was spotless. There would be times when I passed crooked pictures, and couldn't leave the room until I got it perfectly straight. I had developed my worse habit; my obsessive compulsive disorder.

Life was tough living in a home where the government provided us with money, especially since she did not know how to use it to buy groceries. Eventually, life got to the point where my brother and I were forced to steal to eat. Next to our neighborhood was a farm. The only thing they grew was corn, so eventually it grew old. Half of the time the corn had worms in it anyway, and I wouldn't eat food like that. My OCD never would have allowed it.

Food wouldn't be the only thing we learned to steal. Living in a neighborhood like ours could only be called a project. Money wasn't common, but that which was around was easy to get to.

There were no doors in that neighborhood which you could not break into. People like to thing that they are safe because you can't get in with a credit card. The truth is that you can. If you have ever actually looked at a door, the locking mechanism only stops the handle form turning. The actual clasp that stops the door from opening has a curved side and a flat side. If the curve is towards you, all you have to do is push two cards in and pull slightly to the side. Unlike in the movies, this is silent and no one would ever hear you doing it. If the curved part is on the inside, as some of you may be thinking, all you have to do is push on the door; nothing would be stopping it from opening.

Deadbolts could have stopped us, but only temporarily. TO get into a house then, all you had to do was cut a small piece of the screen out of the lower corner of the window. If done correctly, it looks like a big did it. All you really need is enough room to get two fingers into the screen. You reach your fingers in and pull the little black know and pull that corner of the window out. Then slide your hand through to the other side and unlatch the other side in the same manner. When the bottom is off, you can squeeze up though the bottom. The key is to be careful not to bend the screen. Then all you have to do is push the window open. People tend to forget to lock all the windows when they leave; it's too much a hassle and they think the screen will stop someone.

We stole everything from money to rings to collectors' items. I would take what I could, being careful not to leave behind any evidence; my obsessive compulsive stopped me from leaving behind evidence anyway. Often enough, I would turn a picture or center the dining room table set. Overall, I learned how to steal everything of value. It doesn't take much sense to know that stealing a television is both stupid and a waste of time. You can hide jeweler until you sell it… a television is a completely different story.

After a time of living like that, you do eventually get caught. There was nothing I could have done to stop it. It happened when I was out stealing corn from the farm. I was caught by the owner; a young woman in her mid thirties. She was nice enough when she took me in, especially when I pleaded my case and explained what was going on. She felt pity, or what I assume was pity, and had her brother, Ed, take me home. When he arrived at my door, he talked to my mom for a bit.

She did all the explaining, saying that she often felt it tough to control such young kids on her own. She broke down in tears, and he believed it. Being a guy, and thinking he could work this into a night in bed, he let her cry on his shoulder. When she stopped her act, she had fallen asleep on his shoulder. He carried her back to her room and just sat in there, I guess until she woke up. She thanked him for his kindness and gave him her number.

Two days later, we received his call back, and so started a relationship. I would learn that his sister's name was Debbie, and she had a kid named George that was our age. They had more money than us though, and enough toys to get in trouble… many times.

George and I became great friends in no time, each of us liking the same things as the other. He was a hunter and knew how to shoot a bow very well. I guess to him it was second nature. He had everything a boy could have ever wished for in life and then some. At that point in time, the N64 wasn't quite out yet, so the Sega Genesis wasn't outdated. When I went over, it was really cool to play because I had never played video games before. I remember playing the seven up game that he had, though I can't remember the name. You would go around as the seven up symbol with legs, climb ropes and jump over enemies. I don't suppose it was beneficial to learning, but if you played long enough you could forget everything else for a while.

We eventually called Debbie "Aunt Debbie" because of the time Ed was spending with our mother… sometimes in bed, loud enough for us to hear that repulsive act. I hated nights like that; they were enough to make me want to kill him, but I never did… unfortunately.

On George's birthday, I went over to his house for his party. He received a new bow, a recurve, a new motor bike, which he said meant I could now ride his old one and a set of lawn darts. He thought it was the best birthday ever and invited me over the next day to play games with him. I agreed and actually did go over the next day.

What would happen the next day would be the start of bad luck for me for a long time, and what made me start my "Aunt Debbie's farm horrors." These are the stories of why I stopped going over after a while.

The first day over after his birthday, he let me ride his old motor bike for the first time. I was new to the machine, so I had no idea what I was doing. That lack or knowledge cost me. He turned it on for me and told me to twist the handle forward to go. I twisted the handle, but a little too hard. I remember a quick jolt and then my feet flapping behind me. The wind was blowing through my face, but that wasn't what was on my mind. I realized too late that I had no idea how to stop the bike. What was on my mind was the big red barn steadily coming closer. Looking back on the moment, I can only imagine that I looked like one of the cartoons, where the character grabs onto the back of a moving object and you see his body flapping in the wind in a continuous up and down motion. Past that point, I remember almost nothing.

Soon after the incident, I woke up in the ambulance. I remember somebody telling me not to move and then tasting something awful. Turns out it was morphine. I still cannot understand what in the world they were thinking giving morphine to a kid. Those were some of the scariest days of my life; watching people crawl all over the ceiling. As little as I actually felt emotionally, I still remember fear every time I feel it. I like to pretend to long for other emotions, but I'm not sure if that's the truth or just wishful thinking. There might be some truth to it just because of curiosity; I remember that I used to, but that's about it. I have learned to define love as that warm fuzzy feeling I get when I am around her; it's convincing enough, especially if you lower your voice and stare at something when you say it.

Thankfully I was out within a week and out doing what normal boys do; getting into trouble. Not three days after being out of the hospital, I was back with my cousin and playing in his yard. We started by throwing around the football. Since I was never a really small guy, I had a rough time. I would run with the ball, knowing they couldn't tackle me, and they would call it two hand touch for the same reason. Football wasn't his favorite sport though; archery was. Thus, we went out hunting with his bow.

This was not the first time I had been hunting with him before, and used his home made bow. I had gotten good with the bow; I've never missed the animal, but I've never put the arrow through a vital organ either. After an hour of traveling through the surrounding woods, we did indeed find a deer. For a fat guy, I was fantastic at stealth. The only way a dear would find me is if my scent got to the animal.

As we approached the deer, keeping our breath steady, I decided army would be fun to play, so I signaled for him to circle around the deer. He split away from me and went to the left, circling around the deer's back silently and slowly. It did not take us too long to get to a point where we were facing each other. I raised my hand, playing the part of the commander. I raised three fingers, letting him know to fire after my third down swing of the bow. I knocked the arrow on the string and lowered it once, then twice, then a third time. Knowing I had to be quick, I lowered the angle of the bow to look straight down the arrow and aligned it with the deer and let loose.

To this day, I still have no clue why the deer bolted. Just as my arrow let loose, the deer moved. The arrow followed true, doing what I had been making it do since the day I started. This time though, it did hit a vital organ, and the deer fell. Unfortunately, there was only one arrow sticking in the deer… a fact I noticed almost simultaneously with the fire in my knee. I looked across the clearing to see my cousin standing wide eyed, staring at me with an expression one could only call stupidity. Dropping his bow, I guess he decided we weren't done playing, as he played the part of medic.

I've never seen suck strength come from a kid so young, and I probably never will now, but I had always hoped. Leaning down to help me along, he gave me his shoulder and walked with me over to the deer. The black eyes just stared forward and the body didn't move. It was here that he surprised me. He pulled the rope from his jacket and tied the hooves together and threw it over his shoulder. I can only assume the adrenaline was the cause of his strength. He managed to carry his bow in his left hand, support me with his left shoulder and carry the deer strung over his back for the whole twenty minute walk home, only stopping once to pull a thorn out of his cheek.

Upon arrival, another ambulance was called, and I was driven off again, this time conscious. In the ambulance they gave strong Tylenol and let me lay down, propping my knee up with a pillow. Appearently, the arrow had actually managed to lodge itself in the cartilage between the bones in my knee, making it excruciatingly painful to try and straighten the knee out. Upon arrival at the hospital, they performed surgery on my knee. They had to cut the skin around it and grind out part of the bone in order to get the arrow out of my leg. There is a small piece of my bone missing in my knee, but it did eventually get replaced in due time. Even today, when I've been kneeling for a while, you can see the scar on my knee. It's most easy to see then because the rest of my knee is white, and the scar tissue is a little darker.

Of course, you would think I had learned my lesson, but alas, I didn't. I was stuck in a cast for three months after that. I was allowed to go out of a cast right around the time science fair started, another of my accomplishments. I was able to walk around, but slowly because of an undying pain in my knee, similar to someone stabbing me with hot needles. I went over there, against my better judgment to pick up some of the deer jerky they had just made. That's some of the best jerky in the world, and part of what led me to my secret recipe.

When I arrived, I immediately went inside to say hello to my Aunt Debbie, and received my kiss, the same kiss I received every time I saw her. She took me down to the freezer and handed me a few Ziploc bags, and told me George was out back. He was playing football with my brother, and stopped when I arrived, to run up and hug me. Evidently, he had missed me. They both stopped playing football to spend time with me, knowing I wouldn't be able to play football with them. Instead, George took out his lawn dart he had received for Christmas that year. We just sat there, talking and throwing it back and forth in the yard.

For those of you that don't know, a lawn dart is not the same as a dart used to play the recreational sport of putting a target on the wall. A lawn dart is used to paint a huge target on the lawn and just throw in hopes of getting a good score. The dart has to be big enough to see when it hits the ground, and heavy enough that you can't throw it too far. If you compared it to a regular dart, it would weigh about seven or eight times that of a normal metal dart and be three or four times as big.

As we were throwing around the dart, I experienced what would be the last of Aunt Debbie's horror stories. I glanced up and saw the dart. I calculated its landing point and yelled for my brother to move. He was right in the projected course. When he turned to look at me, I looked back at the dart to point at me. I heard the thud long before I felt it. I had misjudged its landing point by quite a distance and it landed right over my right eyebrow. Again, I was lucky enough to see that stupid look on my cousin's face. I heard my brother scream as he saw the blood trickle down my forehead. I did what any kid would have done; I asked where the football was. Or maybe they wouldn't have. Either way, the only two thoughts going through my head were that no one was going to pull it out of my head, and that if someone called 9-1-1, I would rip it out of my head and stab them with it; I was pretty sure that they would arrive in minutes anyway… out of sheer intuition. Luckily, they didn't, on my request.

***

Ed was a big fisher as well as a hunter. Often, on the weekends, he would take us out fishing with him. (It would be a boring experience, but a calming one.) To him it was bonding with us, but we never really did. I found out quickly that fishing meant killing animals, something that I have previously stated I do not like to do. I actually found that I couldn't eat the fish I caught; I would go without on that day.

Surprisingly enough, the first time I went fishing, I caught a catfish… and called it a day. I decided to take off and just walk the beach; it was kind of relaxing. Every time I would see a horse shoe crab, I would throw it back into the water, dead or alive. I eventually got bored with that and wanted a thrill, so I went for my cousin and brother. We found a payphone and decided to try and use it. I knew that it wouldn't work without money, so I decided to call the one free number many times. I chatted the ear off of the desk receptionist, and before too long cops arrived at the scene. We had stopped playing with it by then, but they were looking for the culprit. I suppose I was safe until they found out there were only a few under aged people there, and that only three of those were really young. I suppose being young did have its benefits, one of them not being my high pitched voice.

This incident did have its warnings though; I learned that there was something called reasoning. I was told how they found me on the way home, and explained that it was kind of like a logic problem. You can guess who spent the next few months working on logic problems.

***

I never stopped thinking about my next opportunity, but at such a young age, I was easily distracted, so I never had any issues fighting the urge. Thinking back, I sometimes feel that I was a man caught in a kid's body. The thinking was always there; a long, well thought out process, with the new added fear of police intelligence. I used to think it was similar to the oxymoron of government intelligence.

After enough thought, I guess the need to do something overcame me, so I planned the best that I could. I started planning my methods, and interrupting me could get what I called the glare of death. It was enough to scare anyone, and when I saw it in the mirror once, I knew why. It wasn't a young kid people saw, but some monster that had somehow inherited his appearance.

The methods were easy enough; killing with a knife was easy enough, even if a bit messy. It would have to be something done from the back of the victim. If done from the back, the knife would just slide across the neck and leave the blood out in front, and if done correctly would never be on my body. I also managed to work out that homeless were the people I wanted to kill; they were the scum of our society, and there was nobody that would miss them anyway, so chances of being caught were lessened.

I was thinking of this on a warm summer day at the beach with my mom when a man, obviously homeless, walked up to my mother and held a knife out to her, threatening that if she didn't giver him her purse, he would kill her kids and then her. I looked up, angry both at the fact that he's homeless and that he had the nerve to interrupt my thought, and gave him my glare. I could see the fear in his eyes when I told him to just turn around and find another beach to wander. He then did the unspeakable and took her as a hostage. I suppose I really didn't care; if she died, so would my secret with her. I knew it would have an effect on my brother though, so I decided not to let things run their course. I slowly approached my mother, and like little kids in a movie, she bit his hand. I ran forward for the knife and ripped it out his had causing the blade to slice off the tip of his index finger. The knife was evidently sharp, probably something stolen from a recent victim. I twisted the blade with a quick flick of my wrist and brought it, as a last second adjustment along the underside of his wrist, cutting every artery that would be in my way. The fear radiated from him as he realized what I had done. His eyes opened up in fear and his mouth just gaped. I was watching him comprehend this, soaking en every moment of it, enjoying the sight. The blood flowed down to his hand, dribbling off his fingertips, and the bone on one of the fingers. After what seemed an eternity of ecstasy watching this, I was brought around by my mother. She grabbed the knife and washed it in the water, making sure to clean it of everything, and took it with us.

I knew that when the body would be found, no one would doubt what had happened; a homeless man had gotten tired of his useless life and killed himself. The body was pilfered by other people in hopes of finding something of worth, and the suicide weapon would never be found. No one would ever doubt it was suicide, and even if they did, would have more pressing matters to look into. The only thing that caused any suspicion was that no one found the fingertip, or the nail on it. I never tried to figure out an excuse for that, but looking back I guess anything could be said; crab ate his finger or a bird. It was a superfluous question to me. I was just happy to have the nail.

***

It took some time, but Ed eventually moved in with us permanently. He would be the primary bread earner for the family, and I was okay with that. School was almost at a start, and I had knowledge to look forward to. I was even getting in contact with "friends" again to talk about the new school year, but was surprised by an announcement from Ed. He would be joining a roofing company that was an hour and a half a way. We would be moving again, which meant a lot of cleaning once again for me. I was okay with that though; it would take my mind off of my desires once more. I would start Third grade there, but I was okay with the idea of a new school; maybe this time I would scare less people. I didn't really care for the most part, but I had to make people like me as a necessity. Wasn't that the true purpose? To make your legend one of those that no one ever expected you to be that monster? It was my goal to be the best person I could be… outside of those few times when my need took over, but I even had control then; just in a different way. And I knew it would grow, along with the body count, day by day, year by year, until the day I was caught.


	6. Chapter 5

Dear Readers,

First off, I want to apologize for taking so long to get this out. As many of you know, and some of you may not, I identify myself as an atheist. As a result, when my brother wants to go to church and no one can take him, I volunteer, willingly. I respect his choice to worship, but I do not partake in the festivities. Instead, I freeze n the car writing this story. Sometimes it seems as if church is the only reason I have time to write. I do not intend to offend anyone with this, just to give the reason for taking so long; an hour a week doesn't get much done.

I am required by my own morals to warn you that this chapter contains sexual content. This separates it from other chapters. When I warn this, it isn't suggestive material, but rather the actual act being included in depth. If you are too young or wary of this, please either skip around it or wait until I come out with a remake of the chapter that is appropriate for your tastes. Keep in mind though that I cannot just stop writing the next chapter; the remake of this will not be until I am done with the other chapters, but before I start editing the material. That brings up my next topic; many of you have left remarks about my errors and I wish to make it a little easier on all of us; I'm putting this out for your reading pleasure; I am nowhere near ready to take it to any kind of editor. If you are a true reader, and I know who you are, I will give you a copy of it should I ever be lucky enough to get it published. Without further ado, I give you chapter 5.

Chapter 5

I have mentioned before how much moving sucks; I actually enjoyed the move this time. I suppose what started it was that while we were loading up the truck, our neighbor came out and asked us if we were moving. I had to be a smart ass of course, so I answered, "No, we're practicing Tetris for the world tournament." I had grown to like the smart attitude; it fit me well and was easy to use. In the future I would learn that this was generally followed by, "Here's your sign." (Thank you Bill Engvall.)

This was a first on many levels for me. It was my first move since my last kill, first move for reasons other than the law, first move into an apartment. I would soon grow accustomed to the apartment environment; it had a nice touch of nice guy to it. Of course, I was the only one to believe I was a nice guy in the family; everyone in my family sensed something wrong. I always disliked my family being that perceptive, but then again, I was never trained in my ways; it isn't like there is some serial killer guru out there. I made it through alright though; no one turned me in or had me profiled, thank god. At that young I never would have been able to pass such a test. I would now, but what's the point?

The apartment itself had two bedrooms. When you walked in the front door there was a short hallway. At the end the apartment was split on two sides. To the right was the dining room. It was a petit room and attached with no hallway to the kitchen. The kitchen had dollar a dozen cabinets made to look like maple, but even the lightest of inspections could uncover the truth. The floor in the kitchen was linoleum, a fact that would eventually help me when it needed to be replaced. The kitchen exits out towards the bedrooms, connecting by a small open area that led to the living room. The living room was the room that connected to the left of the hallway. If entering the living room from the kitchen, you would see a closet attached to it. It was meant to be a walk in closet, and was instead transformed into the bedroom my brother and I would stay in.

After continuing past the kitchen would be three doorways. One room at the end of the hall and two on the sides, facing one another. On the left would be Paul's bedroom, Ed's son, as he was moving in with us. On the right was the main bathroom. The bathroom was kept up, so at least there would be no major cleaning that needed to be done. The master bedroom was fairly big. Once inside, the bathroom was on the right and a walk in closet further on down. The bathroom contained only a shower, and no tub. The shower had a detachable head, but was useless as once it detached it leaked everywhere. The room would eventually be one big fetish room, but I was unable to understand that then. At that age I was still only researching the idea and not fully understanding the concept.

The apartment would be my home until I turned 18, almost for its entirety. Living in it was easy, as was the upkeep, as Paul turned out to have as much OCD as I did when it came to cleaning.

***

I spent the rest of the summer working on learning math skills, and eventually made it to the concept of "i", or the imaginary number. I soon found out this was meant to be well beyond my capabilities, but I didn't understand what the title of the book had meant when it said Pre-calculus. I have many people in my life that still never believe that it was possible for someone so young to accomplish this, but I did. When I got into school, this would end up being a hindrance because I stood out; I would always get perfect scores in math and was well above the material my classmates were working on. I managed to talk my teacher into getting me an evaluation for classes and was placed in Algebra for math, and had to spend time afterschool on the class, travelling in the school bus to the local high school. After a week of it I tested out, and scored a perfect score when doing so. I was pushed up to geometry and struggled; I suppose shapes just give me troubles.

I was still stuck as an elementary student everywhere else; studying things like Columbus and the Indians, playing the same gym sports of dodge ball and whiffle ball and reading the same Goosebumps books as everyone else in class. I wished to move up in English too, but alas, they thought it too much a load for me to take harder English classes as well as Geometry. Though they were mistaken, I know it was done with my best intentions in mind. I was instead referred by my English teacher to the programs tat they had, including one to Pizza Hut. Pizza Hut was offering a free personal pan sized pizza to every kid that read twenty books and got the form signed by their parents and teachers. I would read twenty books and get a slip. I started out on my grade level but eventually moved up, eventually reading the classics of Oliver Twist and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. There was a point when my teacher thought I was lying, but I stayed after and gave an in depth description of the novel, and an analysis. I suppose she knew I was well beyond my years, but never let me move up, just keeping me held back.

Eventually, I became interested in sports; they were a release from my containment; I was able to unleash myself out on the field without ever worrying about whether or not the world might catch my secret. I joined the kid's league for football. I was taught, for lack of a better word, to play as a runningback, but never started. I knew I was good enough, but I aimed to hurt the kids I played against, and after seeing me practice my coaches kept me out of games for the most part. I was satisfied with practice though; I could do what I wanted there and coaches weren't allowed to stop me without reason. I did play defensive back in practice once and broke the quarterback's arm. At that age it didn't matter; pick another kid and he can be quarterback. At that time it was all about giving a kid a ball and letting him run with it.

Shortly after the season ended, I was feeling the need grow day by day and knew I had to do something about it. At the time I was focusing my day on trying to make barbecue sauce; there was a contest in early December I wanted to enter. Lady luck was with me though; my mother decided to replace the linoleum. This consisted of cutting it into strips with a utility knife and pulling them up one at a time. She was unfortunate enough to cut herself in a major way; the skin on her thigh was slit in an eleven inch length, as deep ad 4 inches in some area. She was stuck in the Emergency room for a little over a week, and that left me time on my own. Ed was only able to stay near us when he wasn't working, so I was able to wonder off on my own. Trying to make the sauce was tough though; I could not make it anything more than mediocre. I would spend days taking it out into the woods next to the apartment. No one ever used to woods, so I never had any interruptions, at least not until the day she would come back from the hospital.

***

Working on the sauce in the woods involved smelling different herbs that grew and identifying them in a book. I was often bothered by animals, but they were easily shooed away from the sauce. Every day I would go out with the same attitude that this would be the day I find my secret ingredient, but it never came true, until that day.

I suppose hunger will drive a man to do almost anything, and my sauce did smell a lot better than it tasted. There would be times when I could smell it a quarter of a mile down the trail when looking for herbs. On one of these outings, I returned to see a man in rags preparing to take the sauce. I yelled out "stop" at the top of my lungs and had the effect I had hoped it would; it startled him enough to give me time to close the distance. I was barely able to control myself then; I knew I had the answer at my hands to my burning need of late, but I had to be careful; I could still slip up. When I looked into his eyes I saw my own calm calculating look, mixed with the growing pupils of my adversary. I reached out slowly and put my hand on each side of his face, trying to comfort him a little, letting him know his hunger was over; I would take care of him. I knew he would have feared anything but, especially with as confused as the man seemed to be. See, men are much like animals; back them into a corner and it can mean the end for you. It is much easier to convince them that you have their best interest with you. With one hand on each side of his face I winked my eye to reassure him and told him that what I had was the best recipe east of the Mississippi and that he could have as much of it as he wanted when I got him home and took care of him. I saw him start to loosen up; his shoulders began to sag and his breathing slowed a little. His grip on the pot loosened and he started to weep. Seizing this opportunity I tightened my grip on his head and twisted. I knew enough to know that it would work only if he loosened up; I could never have done it with my strength at the time if he didn't. I took out my herb knife and began to cut off his fingernail, unfortunately for me, the body had one last spasm and I cut down his forearm. As the blood started to leak I knew I had to take care of it; blood left here would possibly trace back to me. I did the best thing I could; I held his arm over the pot and let it drip until it slowed to a drip. I covered the wound in some leaves and carried the body off to the river that ran nearby.

The river was made by two cliffs that rose on each side. The water ran through far below and the walls of the cliff were jagged. I quickly dropped the limp body over the edge and eroded some of the ground to make it look as if he had slipped. As the body fell, the second arm caught on a branch and was impales on it. The branch collapsed and the corpse fell, hitting jagged rocks on the way down. It was never covered in newspapers, even when the body was found. To them it was just another John Doe, nothing more. They would find the spot he fell from, and decide it was an accident; the branch had caught his arm and his other one had ripped on another rock. Sometimes nothing more in my life was more evident than my luck, but then again, nothing is more important to me than my luck.

***

Leaving the woods I had to grab my barbecue sauce. I had written down the ingredients to it, so I knew I could remake it. It would just take almost a week to get it to where I had it. I carried it home, noting that it weighed a little more than it did before. I set it in on the kitchen counter, too tired from the events to really care to take care of it and fell asleep.

I was woken up by my mother telling me I had napped long enough. I walked into the kitchen to start to cook dinner to find that it was already being made, and then a familiar smell hit my nose. I knew what it was immediately; my barbecue sauce. I looked around, alarmed. My mother walked in, and seeing my face, reassured me, letting me know she didn't use much; there was still plenty to take to competition. Evidently she had come home that day and mixed it up seeing I had added a new ingredient. Then she tried it. I almost got sick when I heard this, and went into my bedroom, letting her know I had a headache, a valid ailment considering I had just woken up. I slept very lightly thinking about what they were doing in the kitchen. It's amazing what the idea of something like that can do to you. I can live with taking lives, but cannibalism, never.

Even with that fear, I decided to enter it into the contest. Maybe it was good enough to make it in the contest, maybe not, but either way, it was out of my life, or at least so I thought.

***

If you've never been to a competition, you have no idea about the crowd that swarms from station to station. I had cooked an odd meal to sell there in order to make up for the cost of making the barbecue sauce. The basic idea was to slice up hot dogs, add some spices and cook it in some of the sauce. The product sold just about as well as I had hoped, and was gone by the end of the day, but there really wasn't anyone that kept coming back. I suppose it's because I didn't make ribs or something similar, but at a dollar apiece, I was making more than enough to cover costs.

At one point, I almost shot myself in the foot. Unintentionally, I warned a kid that he might not want to eat that, and he assumed I was talking about his weight. There's nothing worse than an angry mother in your face, especially when it's evident the word "toothbrush" isn't in her vocabulary. The situation was made worse by me not being able to tell her the actual reason. Something about having the world know I kill people just didn't seem appealing. So I let her rant until she stormed off with her head held high, and I could finally relax and serve my customers in peace.

Of course, I tried the competition throughout the day; it didn't help me see the contest ahead of time, but it did let me try many different foods. It was tough to get time to do this, so I had my younger brother get me a little of each from the surrounding areas for me to try. The worst I had was a barbecue sauce that had been mixed with what tasted like applesauce… It was enough to make me gag, but my brother happily ate it, not one to pass up free food. If only I had the same ability… maybe then I would never have tried my sauce, but as all things tend to, curiosity got the better of me and I tried my sauce. Something had changed in the sauce, and I knew what the cause was, but not why it made the changes in the sauce that had been made. The sauce had a slightly metallic taste that probably only I would recognize, but also an overpowering flavor that seemed, for lack of a better term, full. It wasn't so much a taste as it was a feeling that I had from eating it. If I Had ever doubted that my sauce stood a chance, it ended there.

When the time for the judging came around, all of us brought up our sauces for the judges to taste. Each one was tried by a panel of fifty judges, and each judge gave it a score based on a scale of one to one hundred. As each judge passed through, they would write the score on a note card and flip it over in order to keep the other judges from making scores based on each other.

As I was watching one of the judges write his score, I saw another judge at the applesauce man clutching his stomach. That kind of thing ends your chances, not that he ever had a chance to begin with. Of course, I knew that the ribs stations would have an advantage, but the judges had to score the sauce, and not the food that went with it. That wasn't an issue with me… there was nothing left of the hotdog dish left.

After what felt like hours the judges finished giving scores and came around to collect our scores, placing them in envelopes with our names on them. One of the judges stepped up to the podium and gave a planned speech that lasted for twenty minutes while scores were counted up by volunteers and judges. I knew it was coming to an end when the judge said, "When you have 126 contestants, it can often be very hard to pick out those which are the best. Sometimes it just comes down to a matter of what a single judge had for breakfast, especially if he had some applesauce for breakfast that just wouldn't stick in him." That brought many laughs from the crowd; evidently I wasn't the only one that didn't like the dish. The judge continued by reading up the list from the bottom, stopping when he got to the last ten contestants. Since my name had not been mentioned, I knew I had made it to the top ten. He said that everyone past here gets a monetary prize, and the smallest would be one hundred dollars and the largest at one hundred thousand. He started down the list, "Tenth place goes to Jack Donaldson, who made his barbecue sauce infused with Champaign. To him, we award 100 dollars. Congratulations to Jack. Ninth place goes to Amy Robins who made her sauce mixed with acorns and bay leaves. Would that she would tell me more of the ingredients… TO her we award two hundred dollars in cash. Eighth place goes to Jesse Etchins, who has declined to tell us anything about his barbecue sauce. To him we award five hundred dollars. Seventh place is awarded to Aaron Liches. It would appear as if no one wants their secret out. To him we award a thousand dollars. Sixth, fifth and fourth was a tie between Justin Atkins, Robert Veldins and Jessica Ellis." The judge paused for a time; I suppose to raise dramatic effect. Two emotions crossed through me at that time. The first was fear, fear that I might actually win first place and have to give up my recipe. The second was disgust, disgust in that the judges would find the blood of their own kind so appealing to the pallet.

Time seemed to move in slow motion, making the agony of the two emotions much more unbearable than I could have ever expected. The strain must have showed on my face, but no one took notice. Even if they did, it was probably construed as anxiety to find out what position I would get. In a way, I suppose that was exactly what it was.

Eventually the judge seemed to catch up with time and announced the final winners. I took second, which would still be unnerving, and won fifty thousand dollars. That kind of money meant little to me, but then again what I had on my mind was not winning but disgust. Most of the money was placed in a college fund, but I was allowed to keep three thousand of it. Of course, as I predicted, the recipe was asked for by many and I was able to sell it, omitting the blood, as no one would understand and I would be gone for good. I was able to, in the future, claim that it was my recipe and that when you make up a recipe, no one can make it exactly as you do, even if you follow the same exact process.

The money ended up becoming a problem in my life. I ended up using it to buy food and put on weight, which in turn made me spend more money on a gym membership. IT took a while, but they agreed to sell me a membership at a young age, with the understanding that I would have to report to their personal trainer. I managed to lose all of the weight, and put on muscle, not something anyone was used to seeing in someone so young. I would end up continuing this throughout the rest of my life, keeping in top shape. The purpose was to keep me in the normal range, but also had the bonus of making it easier to subdue my victims. Of course, during my exercise, I had to cope with being bored, so I picked up books from the library and read them as I ran or worked out. Fantasy and serial killers became my topics of choice. Of the books that I read, Wizard's First Rule was the best, as were the following books. I will always remember that people are fools, and ultimately fall victim to it, landing myself on death's row.

***

Life sometimes blesses us with luck, while other times pain. I was usually blessed with luck, but it also seemed that I sucked it out of those around me, causing them to fall to the most unfortunate of events. The one that sticks out in my mind most was one of Ed falling off of one of his roofs. There was no slow motion action or stop and pause of the body falling, just one smooth motion. I was sure he was dead, but his cursing ended that. Of course that made me jump to the conclusion that he was just winded, but that wasn't true either. He ended up breaking every bone in his right leg, some in several places. He's lucky to not have died, but that may be why I assume I was lucky. The fall cost him his job and put him on the unemployed list for a long time, cutting our household income down to unemployment and Welfare. My dad would chip in every month with a little more than he sent the previous month in order to cover expenses, but even then it was tough for them to afford drugs, alcohol and food all at the same times, so they prioritized and we sometimes went without food.

Our fiduciary status was commonly known by everyone in the neighborhood. Even for us to be living in such run down apartments, we were still the poorest in the neighborhood. This brought on many days of teasing, but this was nothing I could not handle. It was something that my brother couldn't handle and eventually caused him to snap.

Living in such a low end neighborhood brought many different races into one area at the same time. As it would happen, the two kids that finally got to Mike were black, and would bring up questions of whether or not we were racist. Of course Murphy's Law would take effect and we would be a fourth and third grader taking on sixth grade twins. I have put some emphasis on my strength, but when you are trying to take on someone twice your size, you can't do it head on; all you can do is really get on the ground, put your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye. (Thank you Volcano.)

Between the four of us, there were countless fights that would occur throughout the years, and would end sometime around when I turned fifteen. I would eventually look like the hero of the bunch and be recognized by the local newspaper as such, mainly because of proper setup. That would happen on the eve of my thirteenth birthday, but that is a story for a later chapter. For the meantime, it is fair to say that I was taking more beatings than any kid should ever have to at such a young age, almost to the point of not wanting to leave the house. I wouldn't let my mother take care of things; one's pride can be his worst weakness.

***

In May of my fourth grade year, I again entered the science fair project. This time I set out to prove that criminal profiling was something anyone could do, not just the professionals, and I was somewhat correct in this assessment. When you consider that most serial killers follow a pattern, and you know the pattern, anyone can do it. Of course, it wasn't as easy to everyone else. I made everyone look like a good guy, using the profiles of actually serial killers to my advantage, and not letting the testing subjects know anything about the triad in their description. I also built a crime scene for this test, getting into extreme detail.

Out in the woods I taped off a thirty foot by thirty foot section and set up a crime scene. In the middle was a perfectly cut life size Barbie doll, cut up and stacked in even pieces. On the ground, not too far away were her clothes, and the torso, sitting on top of the clothes with beef blood staining the cloth underneath of the torso, in a way that was meant to suggest that it was that time of the month for the doll. Also on the shirt was a little black powder, gun powder, so I had to keep smokers away from it. The last part of the clothes was that the shirt was stained with dog drool, but the intended look was made properly. On a tree, a distance away was a piece of cloth that had been torn from a shirt, snagged on a branch.

I recruited high school students to assist me with this, using the high school chemistry teacher as a bribe; he offered extra credit to anyone that could guess the right scenario. I provided him with the case and then he would accept them as they came to his desk. I still have the letter now. It reads,

Dear Mr. Cray,

I really appreciate your help with this project. I feel this is a project I can go to states with, and I would not have been able to do it without your help. Below is the solution to the crime. If you have time, I would like you to come down and check out the crime scene; it is very well done. Again, I appreciate your help.

The crime scene is made up with the body sitting in perfect order so that the viewer understands that the killer is not just some guy, but a very intelligent person. The clothes are set under the pelvis to suggest that he needed the pelvis lifted up for something. In this case, he was getting a close up photo, evident by the gunpowder on the clothes. The other stain was there to suggest a male had gotten enjoyment from the body. It was not the killer's though, not with the order that the body was arranged. Instead, it would seem that our killer was interrupted, and had to flee, catching his shirt on a branch and tearing it. The intruder used the body in order to get pleasure, probably even using the body as a tool, though no evidence would be conclusive of that without assistance from the labs. This kind of setup would put the victim as probably a young male, to have been able to carry the tools around for this without struggle. The male would be well kept, and probably dressed in nice clothes on a regular basis. This can be drawn from the fact that the victim was a female; female serial killers don't exist except in the case of Black Widows. Black Widows, as the name suggests, are women that kill their husbands to continue living. A black widow eats her lover, while the human kills for the money she would stand to get when he passes on. IN any case, as the victim is female, the perpetrator is male. His description comes from the organized state of his scene, as someone as organized while committing an act such as that would be just as organized in the rest of his life.

That's all there is to the crime. I hope it helps in some way. The second person is of no matter, but should someone submit something, stick with disheveled, even homeless. The second person would have to be stupid; that kind of evidence can track back to you and include you in the crime. This would be something that was analyzed anyway; the police would at least need him for questioning at least, if not third-degree.

Thank you again for the help, and I look forward to working with you in the future!

Sincerely,

Me. (Sorry readers, I know you still want a name, but the suspense grows.)

The project was a success; I tied for first in the school, but honestly deserved second. The other guy built his own laptop on his own, quite a feat tat the time. Both of us went onto states, and I pulled fourteenth place. The other guy managed second and went onto nationals. I was offered the chance for nationals, but I declined. I knew that while the fame was fun, I needed to keep a low profile. I was still able to leave with a three thousand dollar scholarship when combined with what the school gave me. I never cared to find out what happened with the laptop. I suppose it worked out well, as I am using one to write. (Having a laptop placed outside of your cell and typing through the bars is tough, but if I don't, I lose this laptop.)

Don't worry about life in jail though, that is also a future chapter. All you really need to know is that you have my thanks.

***

In our neighborhood, it was known that the ladies in apartment 315, said three one five, were lovers. TO some, this was okay, and to others it was not. The number stood for building three, floor one and apartment five. Since they were on the ground floor, sometimes you caught glimpses of what went on inside. I still vividly remember my mistake; and in great detail. This isn't good for someone that despised the act.

**READERS BE WARNED. DON'T READ IF TOO YOUNG!**

I was lucky enough that there was no way they could identify me, as they didn't know me. Anyway, I happened to be walking by and they had left their blinds open. They were both lying on the couch kissing, without clothes on. I could feel hatred burning in my chest, but I also couldn't move. As much as my mind screamed for me to move, I just could not complete the task. All I could do was watch, both with horror and curiosity. I just watched, and eventually one did notice me, between their embraces. Rather than get up and close the blinds, she whispered something in her lover's ear and they continued to make out. I could see them grinding their faces together, as if they were trying to suck the life right out of each other, as if letting go of the kiss would kill them both. I saw the one on top move her hand down to her girlfriend's chest and give a slight pull on the nipple, causing her lover to arch her back, thankfully with eyes closed. Their hands slid over each other's body, caressing each and every curve, a scene which would have put most men five feet from their doorway.

The one on top reached her arm down underneath of them, stroking the other in a circular motion, feeling the other shiver under her body. She kept her hand there, continuing the motion and slowly kissed her way down her body, turning as she did so, stopping when each of them was facing opposite directions. With one situated on top of the other, I could see more than I was meant to. I could see the one on the bottom taking slow nibbles here and there, as if savoring what she was doing. She reached a hand up and slowly separated her girlfriend and prepared for the next step. Then, taking a deep breath, she seemed to move hand forward, as if in slow motion, not feeling the need to stop for any reason. But she was.

She was stopped by a loud crash, and then the shattering of a window. The rock hit the ground and bounced up off of the carpet, hitting a picture frame on the wall. In the startled state, I ran, trying to get as far away as possible, hidden by the night. I ran as hard as I could, going through the woods, hoping no one would see me and I hid in a small alcove I used occasionally to keep dry. I waited a while and went back, aiming to be a spectator in the incident. Luckily, I was. I suppose it was tough for the two of them to tell who was there; just that it was someone young, and with me feigning being amazed, I fit in with everyone else, blending into the background like a wolf in the night.

That same wolf would be howling upon a moonlit hill one day, waiting for the next big challenge.

As an after thought before posting this chapter, I felt like starting chapter six… as a preview for all of my readers. It isn't much, but I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Six

Something was completely wrong with the last kill; I had been feeling it grow stronger and stronger of late, and it was unbearable now. I felt the urge to kill still, as if my need wasn't satisfied. I looked at the scene and seemed somewhat repulsed; not by the act, but rather by the inexperience demonstrated in the way it was done. It hit me almost like a lighting bolt; somewhat of a frightening image, but also a revelation. I was bored with my method.


	7. side chapter

Dear readers,

I have been a long time working on chapter six and decided to take a break. I owe it to my readers to post, and I honestly want to provide a great chapter six when it comes out. This chapter is a filler chapter, and I'll find a place when I get through to editing the book. I am actually going to dedicate this chapter, which has not been done before, and probably won't ever be done again. This chapter goes out to a girl that taught me that love strikes anyone at anytime and you never know when that it; that love hits peasants and kings alike, and sometimes both at the same time. My only hope is that she reads this; she will know; it's all about white houses.

Also, to my dear sister that is reading this, I am combining two separate events into one. If you want to know about this, ask me, you know I will explain it to you. Just know that this did actually happen to her; I have the scrubs from the incident.

About mid-summer, I was waiting for something to happen. When you spend most of your life making up a convincing facade, things tend to get boring, not having any real friends. I was blessed by my mother finally going into labor, meaning that I would have a baby sibling. I really didn't care much about it, but it was at least _something_ to break the monotony. When she was driven away in the ambulance, I was forced to wait until Ed could come and get me. When he did, we were rushed to the hospital with him and waited in the waiting room for what seemed like eons.

Waiting was no longer new to me; I was used to having to fill my time. I picked up a magazine and pretended to read it while reliving the thrill of my latest kill. Being in the hospital only made it better; I let this one live in a way that he could survive if an ambulance find him in enough time, but would bleed to death out of his fingers long before he could actually figure out a way to dial without his digits. I had given up trying to be quiet. I used my age as a blanket; I knew I was safe if I left no forensics behind. I was having a perfect life fighting their plague and fulfilling my desires.

It was late at night, so the waiting room was empty. Very few people passed by and the hall light flickered a little. Looking outthe door I could read a sign on the opposite door. It said, "3124 Consultation Room." In the waiting room itself were vending machines; coke and some snacks.

After asking Ed for some change, I went to get a soda, and thanked the gods that it was only a coke machine; the employees had stocked it with diet Pepsi; I suppose it's the simple things in life. I inserted my change and took my drink. Popping it open was a task; the can opened, but the tab moved off to the side and refused to open. I ended up having to use a pen, but my effort was rewarded as I sipped the drink. Nothing says lovin' like diet pepsi and a quiet room. (Dunno why, but it seems appropriate to me.)

After sitting down in my seat, the world worked it's laws on me. Kind of like a patron in a restaurant that lights up a smoke to get the waiter to appear, so did the doctor appear when I opened my soda. What I thought was that I was going to have to get rid of the pepsi, but the doctor led us instead right across the hall to the consultation room. We were informed that my mother might not make it through; there were some complications due to birth. He said they were doing everything they could to save them both, but it didn't look good. He left us to our thoughts. Ed and Mike were weeping, but I just sat there. I suppose it was a blessing to me, but to them it was a shock. Having her gone would mean that she would never be able to hold my secret over my head and that I would be safe from that threat. I just acted the adult as I always have, consoling them and trying to treat the situation as if everything would get better, silently hoping that it never did.

During my wait, I began to feel the only thing I would never be able to explain in my entire life. I have always been able to explain everything else, but what happened there was beyond any of my reasoning. What I felt was anger, uncontrollable anger and anguish mixed together. I knew I had no reason to feel anything but happiness, or an emotion similar, but I felt anger. I eventually talked to a shrink about it, and they blamed it on high emotions. I agreed at the time, but I would eventually learn what it really was, in due course.

At the time I was saved by the doctor coming in. Evidently my mother had passed in childbirth, and the child was having troubles as well. This seemed to break me out of my spell, causing me to understand that the best event of my life had just occurred. I was finally free to enjoy the life I wanted to. Everything was good, at least for five minutes, but as I would tell people for the rest of my free life, nothing good ever lasts. An assistant came running through and said that by some miracle she managed to pull through. This shattered me; I thought I was free. After that, I remember almost nothing. Ed said he blamed my non-responsiveness on shock from almost losing my mother. She might have known the truth, but she was the only one. As if to rub it in, she gave me the scrubs from that occasion; a constant reminder that I still had one barrier sitting in the way of my free reign.

What came out of the night, however, was a miracle, in a cute little bundle. At first I was repulsed, unable to get near it; all it did was eat, cry, sleep and shit. I hated it. As it turns out though, I was not done being forced to grow up. It would turn out that the baby was soon to be my responsible. This drooling ball of slime was going to be mine to take care of and I had no choice in the matter. My responsibilities consisted of waking up at six every morning and taking care of the baby, making sure that he didn't wake anyone up. It wasn't complicated work; making faces actually turned out to be fun. Before long I was allowed to take him out of his crib and hold him. I did so every morning, holding him on my lap while I watched cartoons.

I soon learned everything I needed to take care of the child, well, everything but breastfeeding of course. My caretaking was tiring, but worth it. I was still able to do school work, but I was spending more and more time caring for the baby. As the days shortened and daylight started to wane, the baby was starting to have sleepless nights, something that had not occurred yet. The first night it happened, no one worried, considering it just a stage. After a few days though, I refused to let them keep him at home without getting him checked out. At the hospital, I actually received the worst news of my life. The doctors told me that he had severe brain damage due to complications at birth, and would likely never be able to walk or talk. After havinbg to cope with doctors taking away the best event of my life, I decided they would be wrong about this too and set to teach him to talk.

Spending even more time with him seemed impossible, but I managed. I constantly spoke to him, something I had never done before. I bought books from the store that made me angry to read due to simplicity, but I did it for his sake. I read everything from Dr. Seuss and almost lost my mind. Some of the works of Dr. Seuss were tougher to read just because of the combination of words. One might compare that feat to asking a native Mexican to pronounce irregularly.

Christmas rolled around and my dad sent me a talking robot, something I used for a while, but quickly bored of. All it did was shoot out a missile, and after shooting my mother too many times, I found out what comes at the end of, "If you do that one more time…"

I also received a book for B en, the baby, or Buck as we all called him. His name had been Ben since birth, but it wasn't until Christmas that I could actually refer to him as such. This actually proved to be an appropriate name due to the different meanings of the word Buck. To Ed and the rest, it was in reference to the hunter that he would one day become. To me it was in reference to the only value in my life. I had found myself overprotective of him, watching over him all the time, worried at every sniffle. It wasn't until March that I finally broke.

March 30th is my older brother's birthday, a date I will never forget. On that day, I received the best present. Coming home from school, I dropped my backpack off and ran in to see Buck. I put my hands over my face and asked, "Where's baby?" Instead of the usual giggles I heard something I remember as clear as the church bells that chimed the end of football practice. What he said was "day-day." It didn't take too much to know what he was trying to say. It was my name he was saying, and I could see the look of joy in his eyes; most likely a reflection of the look in my eyes. (Readers; you just got the name of your narrator for the first time. Haha… never thought about it much.) I was as shocked by this event as all the other events in my life put together. He just smiled and waited for me. I could only stare in disbelief.

It took my mother coming in to finally convince me that I needed to say something. She looked at me and said, "It's a baby… you've been taking care of him over a half a year now, are you dumb enough not to know that?" Aggrivated, I replied by covering my eyes and saying "Where's baby?" He replied the same as before, and the response on my mother's face was priceless, as if she had never seen anything so extraordinary in the world. Seizing my advantage, I told her to pick up her jaw or a cock… roach might climb in.

The whole family got their chance to see this, and it kind of made me feel like a traveling freak show. I put up with it though; I was feeling an emotion I had never felt before. I wasn't just protective of this child; I actually loved him. I loved him, an idea I still can't wrap my mind around. I always assumed I was never going to be able to love, but here I was finally with a life saving event. Rather than wait around for more to happen, I tried to teach him more. It didn't take me long to learn that he was like a parrot; he responded to motions and specific word commands, but I was just happy to know that he could do that.

Again though, all good things never last. In late July I woke up in the middle of the night in a sweat, everything on me feverish and chilly at the same time. I went into the kitchen hoping to get some meds and to check on the baby. What I saw when I walked into the Buck's room stopped my dead in my tracks; there was blood on his pillow around his head. He was breathing, but it was coming in short gasps. I immediately dialed 9-1-1 and woke up Ed. My mother was at work, so I knew I had to get this over with as quickly as possible if I was going to save him. Getting to the hospital, I was forced into the waiting room once again. Those that forget history are doomed to repeat it, and sometimes those that don't. The doctor pulled us back into that room and I felt the energy again, making my angry. The doc told me that Buck was going to pull through this. He said that he had fallen asleep in the wrong position and had broken his nose somehow. The energy in the room seemed to dim with my sigh of relief and I walked out thinking happy thoughts. While waiting for his return I thought over that time period. During my time with him, I had not once felt the urge to kill anyone. I figured that life was finally perfect, for the first time in my entire life. Sitting in the room, I found myself bored, staring at the ceiling, worried about what I would do if I actually ended up bored out of my mind. I was spared the answer of the question by the doctor coming in. He was shaking, causing me to get the feeling that he was going to lose complete control of himself. Knowing the drill, we followed him into the room. I thought at the time it was to ensure the safety of our conversation.

What happened still tears me apart. Rather than tell me about when we could take Buck home, he explained that sometimes the Lord works in mysterious way. It was then that I understood the feeling eminating from the room, and at the same time the misconception of ghosts. Rather than being left behind emotions of dead people, they are the highest emotions of someone alive in that room, where the emotion is so powerful that it leaves a permanent stain on the room, filtering into everyone's thoughts while they are in there. I screamed out in rage, not able to believe that the doctor would talk about "The Lord" as a way of telling my my brother was dead; my only love in my entire life. I struck out and attacked him, causing him to jump backwards. Ed was older and stronger than me and managed to hold me back. The Doctor called in for reinforcements and they injected me with sedatives. There was a calming effect on the physical part of my party but the emotions still raged on inside of me. I was slowly losing consciousness due to the meds, and the only thing I could think was that they had been wrong three times on their decisions; trouble does indeed come in three.

Readers, again, I know I leave off on things like this, but I hope it make you want to read more. I would be able to tell, but I truly can't tell if you guys don't leave reviews. I know people are reading them; Fairfield is on the brink of thinking I'm insane. (Who says I'm not?) Lol. Please review; it would make me happy; I could turn  into .


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